


The Reconstruction of Regina Mills

by jadeddiva



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A thief,” Cora says, placing her hands on her lap as the carriage jolts forward.  “Even if they’re the only men that will have you, Regina, don’t ever forget that all Northerners are just thieves and scavengers plundering the carcass of a once great society.”  Regina Mills as an elite southern woman of the post-Civil War American South.  Outlaw Queen, late nineteenth century edition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the tumblr prompt for Regina has a southern belle

It’s her mother’s idea, and as Regina is still in her mother’s house, still under her care, she goes along (but not willingly, and not without a few eye-rolls).

“A novelty,” Cora Mills points out, taking in the grand lobby of the Jefferson Hotel, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the wallpaper and the plush carpet.  “A place to have tea.  A place to meet people.”  She lowers her voice, leans in to her daughter.  “With the new bank in town, there will be plenty of widowers who may want someone like yourself.”

Regina does her best to maintain composure, to not let her mother see that her words cut deep.  “A fine idea,” Regina says, casting a curious eye around the room.  It is afternoon tea, and so there are small tables with white linen tablecloths scattered around an ornately-decorated room, wide windows casting soft light on the men and women who occupy them.  An older crowd, but that’s not exactly unexpected these days.  

“Mr. Jefferson surely outdid himself,” Cora adds as they find their way to the table where her father already sits, studying his whiskey (he starts drinking earlier and earlier these days).  When he sees them enter, his gaze immediately finds Regina and she can’t help but smile.

“You both are a vision,” Henry Mills tells his wife and daughter, but he squeezes Regina’s shoulder as she sits down and she can’t help it – her father’s praise is like a balm, soothing over the cuts her mother’s words leave.

Regina cannot help that she is a spinster, kept on the shelf too long: she would have been married, had Daniel survived the war (she can still see him in her family’s parlor, on bended knee, his mother’s ring in his hand. Cora had squealed in delight – a wartime wedding would have been the epitome of patriotism – but Daniel was dead by the end of the year, killed at Petersburg).  Regina thinks about it less often these days, but there are times when she thinks about the life she could have had as a wife and mother, and her chest will hurt and her heart will ache and she stops, because nothing can bring back the dead.  Nothing can change the fact that, at thirty-five, she is alone.

Tea is brought in a silver pot, and Cora pours elegantly, but as she gets to Regina’s cup she notices someone across the room.  “That’s Mr. Gold,” she hisses at Henry.  “He’s said to be one of the richest men affiliated with the new bank.” Cora stands, giving Henry a pointed look.  “You should make introductions.”

Henry Mills rises as well, nodding to Regina that she can stay where she is.  Regina is grateful because (knowing her mother) Cora would make sure to inform the man about Regina’s unattached status.  As her parents shuffle away to go introduce themselves, Regina sighs and reaches for the teapot.  She doesn’t know what’s worse – Cora’s relief at having an unmarried daughter that she can hitch to whichever Northern investors seems to be the current rising star, or her dismay that her unmarried daughter is thirty-five and too old.

“Is the tea here really that bad?”

Regina frowns, uncertain of where the comment is coming from.  She turns to her right, where a man is seated at a nearby table.  Well, seated might be too polite of a word – he lounges in his chair, looking at her with a small smirk on his (handsome) bearded face.  A Northern transplant, no doubt here with the bank.  Regina raises an eyebrow.

“Are your manners still in the North?” she asks, lowering her eyes and focusing on pouring her tea.  She places the teapot back in the center of the table and reaches for the sugar dish.

“I was just asking – I certainly don’t want to order something that makes a stunning woman such as yourself sigh so violently.”

Regina bites her lip to contain her smile at the compliment (she receives so few of them these days).  “It’s not the tea,” she tells him, finally glancing back at the man.  His blue eyes are focused on her, studying her with such alarming scrutiny that she feels exposed – like this man can read all of her secrets, can see her very soul.   She smiles back at him. “It’s the company,” she says.  “It seems like they’ll just let anybody into fine establishments these days.”

He raises his eyebrows at her comment, and his smirk turns into a grin.  “So is the tea any good?” he asks.  “Really, I’m waiting for you to give me advice, since you seem like quite the esteemed lady of Storybrooke.”

Regina reaches for her teacup, raises it to her lips and takes a slow sip, aware that he is watching every movement. 

“Not bad considering the company,” she tells him as she returns it to her saucer.  The man’s gaze softens, and there is a moment – a heartbeat – where Regina knows her own softens as well.

It is disrupted when her parents return to the table and he is joined by his own companion, and so she turns away, focuses on Cora’s report about Mr. Gold (wealthy, widowed, really Regina this might be a catch – )

It’s only as they’re leaving the hotel that she asks her father if he knew the man at the next table.

“Robin Locksley,” he says.  “Here with the bank as well.  Made some money in timber up North.”

“A thief,” Cora says, placing her hands on her lap as the carriage jolts forward.  “Even if they’re the only men that will have you, Regina, don’t ever forget that all Northerners are just thieves and scavengers plundering the carcass of a once great society.”

Regina offers her mother a polite smile, but her thoughts keep drifting back to the man  - Mr. Locksley – and the way that he looked at her (no one has never looked at her with such grace).


	2. 2

It is Mary-Margaret’s idea for her to be part of the tableau.

She is practically vibrating with excitement when Regina enters Uncle Leopold’s carriage, casting her green eyes upon her and smiling wide.

“What is it?” Regina asks, settling onto the seat.  “Is it David? Has he finally proposed?”

Mary-Margaret’s smile falls but only slightly – everyone in Storybrooke knows that the charming David Nolan will propose to Regina’s fair cousin, the question is only _when_ not _if_ – before she collects herself.

“No,” she says, folding her hands primly and properly on her lap.  “We have an opening in our charity tableau and I think you should do it.”  There is a sweet sincerity in her voice that reminds Regina of her aunt Ava, and she wishes (not for the first time) that her mother and aunt had similar traits.

Regina tries not to roll her eyes at the request.  Tableaux are in vogue now as ways for young men and women to see each other socially ( _more like the men ogling the women as they sit, suspended in motion, acting out some scene from literature_ ).   She’s not quite sure why dances are no longer as popular as they once were, but trends change and anyway, she’s too old to fully enjoy them anymore: her dance card hasn’t been full since she was sixteen.

“Can’t you find someone else? One of your darling friends?” Regina asks, thinking of the girls that her cousin associates with – quiet Belle French and loud Ruby Lucas – and Mary-Margaret shakes her head.

“We need a fourth,” she says, then resorts to pleading.  “Please, Regina, it’s for the Widows and Orphans fund, please – “

_Confederate widows and orphans_ , Regina thinks, _and what would I have been if I married Daniel? A burden to my parents or a burden to the community._ She will always be a burden, cursed by the time of her birth to have so many men of her generation die in battle, to miss out on all the rites of passage that a good southern girl should have, to watch her family lose their fortune and her youth begin to fade. 

Life has not been kind to her, but the mere thought of orphans sets her teeth on edge. She always wanted to be a mother, always wanted children, and yet now –

She sighs.  If she cannot have children of her own, then she will help.  “You know exactly what to say to get me to agree,” she tells her cousin with a smile.  She raises her eyebrows as she asks,  “and what role will I have?”

Mary-Margaret shifts, smiles, and Regina feels her heart sink; her cousins wears her feelings on her face, and it is quite obvious that for all she wants Regina to participate, the part itself may not be ideal.

“It’s the four seasons,” Mary-Margaret says voice quiet, and Regina tries not to let her smile falter (she fails).

“Winter,” she says, knowing immediately.  “Of course.”

“Regina, it’s the costume not the – “ Mary-Margaret starts but Regina shakes her head.

“No – no.  It’s fitting.  The rest of you are in the bloom of youth, and I am very much not.”  Regina forces a smile, knows it does not met her eyes.  “I pity whoever will be fall.”

Mary-Margaret laughs – sharp and painful to Regina’s ears.  “Ruby,” she tells her. “The dress is yellow and with her hair – “

“Of course.”  Regina turns away to look out the carriage window. 

They ride in silence.  Mary-Margaret tries to engage her in conversation but Regina’s thoughts preoccupy her mind and while she is perfect at rehearsal, pleasant and polite to Mary-Margaret’s friends, she keeps thinking about winter (cold and barren, just like her).

“You look lovely,” Mary-Margaret tells her as they drape the white mink stole across her dress, place a matching cap on her head.  When Belle brings her a mirror, the shy girl tells her, “You look lovely, Regina,” and it’s everything that Regina can do not to cry.

She does look lovely – her skin glows against the white of the dress, the fur.  For the first time in a long time, she feels like her old self – Regina Mills, fairest in Storybrooke, belle of the ball.   Mary-Margaret is soon behind her, wrapping her arms around her, kissing her cheek and whispering in her ear, “I told you it was the costume.”

Regina puts the mirror down in order to compose herself.

…

“Your sister is coming to town,” Cora says at dinner that night, and Regina reaches for her wine glass immediately.  “She’s bringing the children.”

“Not her husband?” Regina asks, curious.  Zelena was older than her by five years, and far more successful in her mother’s eyes.  She had hitched her wagon to a prominent railroad man named Walsh and they had moved to Kansas a few years before the war.  While it gave Cora fits that her daughter was out there in such a savage and backwards land, the railroad was a steady source of income and Zelena had done well for herself, having several children and establishing herself in Topeka society.

The same could not be said for Regina, of course, and so when Cora replies, sweetly, that Walsh has a job and must stay at home, Regina takes another sip of wine.

“I’m going to be in Mary-Margaret’s tableau for widows and orphans next week,” Regina tells her parents.  “Perhaps Zelena and her little monkeys would like to attend.” Across the table, Henry Mills snorts into his napkin (his grandchildren do resemble monkeys, more to be blamed on their father than the mother) and Cora presses her lips together in frustration.

“You’re too old for that sort of nonsense,” she protests, but Regina shrugs her shoulders.

“They needed a fourth person, and it’s for a good cause, Mother,” Regina points out.  “Besides, who knows? Perhaps those businessmen who are here with the bank will be there as well.  You know that Uncle Leopold is well connected.”  As she watches her mother process this information, she tries very hard not to think about kind blue eyes and a handsome smirk.

(She has thought about the man from the hotel over the past week, wondering why he spoke to her, deciding that he needed some way to pass the time even though there is a part of her, a very small part, that hopes that perhaps he talked to her for other reasons.)

At the head of the table, Cora appears to find this idea pleasing. “Very well, but try not to wear too much rouge, darling.  You’re old, not a whore,” before picking up her fork and returning to her meal.

That night, Regina studies herself in the mirror. There as a time when she was the fairest girl in Storybrooke – fairer than Zelena, fairer than even Cora when she was her age - and as she looks at her face, she thinks it’s still possible that beauty has not left her completely.  There are some lines around her eyes, and several creases in her forehead, but she does not look old and haggard – not yet.  She is still fair, though not as fair as Mary-Margaret, but she is not an old maid.

It is a small comfort, in spite of everything else.

..

Zelena arrives the week of the tableau, little monkeys trailing behind her, and all conversation revolves around her dear Walsh and her dear children and her dear clubwomen and her dear charities. 

Regina’s never gotten along well with her sister – they are both selfish and vain like their mother, who pits them against each other in constant competition – and so she pours more wine at dinner and tries to ignore the feeling of inadequacy that Zelena leaves in her wake.

The day before the charity tableau, Regina tries on the dress that she will wear the following night, plays with her makeup.  She is seated at her dressing table, applying lipstick, when Zelena enters.

“You look lovely, dear – the perfect Winter,” her sister says.  Regina glances up into the mirror and then returns to coloring her lips, focusing on her reflection and not the woman behind her.  ”So cold and solitary, so utterly alone,” Zelena says, leaving the room before Regina can react.

The words echo in her ears and bury themselves deep inside her soul.  She looks in the mirror and all that she can see is _cold_ and _barren_ and _alone_.

She is the perfect Winter after all.

…

On the night of the tableau, Regina arrives at Mary-Margaret’s house alone, dress in hand.  As the other girls preen in front of the mirror, she remembers her mother’s comments about how Mr. Gold from the bank would be there, and to make herself look as pretty as she could (Zelena hid her smirk behind a gloved hand, and the monkeys ran down the stairs chasing each other).

“I need some air,” she tells no one in particular, leaving Mary-Margaret’s bedroom and going downstairs, heading straight for the garden.  It should be unoccupied at this time, as guests have yet to arrive.

It’s not.

“Hello,” Robin Locksley says, as he stands at the edge of the footpath.  He is dressed smartly in a suit, and holds his hat in his hands.  The setting sun makes his hair shine gold, and he paints such an impressive picture standing there that her breath catches in her throat.

Behind him, the roses are in bloom, violent and red, and Regina tries to shift her focus to them.

“You’re a bit early,” she points out. She is clad only in a red dressing gown, her hair pinned up and ready for her costume, and as she goes to clutch her gown, to hold it tighter lest he see something, Regina realizes she doesn’t care if it is scandalous, to be here like this.  She is thirty-five years old – she is not a young slip of a thing, frightened of a man’s gaze.  On the contrary, Regina is surprise to find that she wants him to look.

She clenches her hand at her side instead, brushing past him to smell the flowers.

“I had business to discuss with Mr. Blanchard,” he tells her.  “You know, we were never properly introduced.”  He smiles at her.   “Robin Locksely.”  He holds out his hand, and she places hers in it.

“Miss Regina Mills,” she says, mirroring the smile, appreciating the warmth of his hand beneath her fingertips.  He brings it up to his mouth, brushes a kiss against her knuckles (his beard is coarse against her skin, but she likes it more than she would have thought).

“A pleasure, Miss Mills.”  She likes how he looks at her, how he smiles at her, and when he asks, “what is your role in the tableau?” she tells him.

“Winter.”  She runs her finger over the petals of the rose before looking back at him.  “It’s quite fitting,” she adds, and in her head, she thinks _cold and barren and alone_ so she is surprised by his response.

“I would agree,” Mr. Locklsey says, “for I can think of no one else in this town fit to capture the austere beauty of a winter landscape than you, Miss Mills.”

Her heart stutter-stops and she frowns, uncertain she’s hearing him right.  “I know you’re new to town, but I can assure you that it’s been quite some time since I was called a ‘beauty’, Mr. Locksley.”  Regina pauses, removing her hand from the rose.  “I believe the term ‘old maid’ is far more commonly used.”

“Well, I’d have to disagree with that assessment.”  He reaches between the two of them, fingers grabbing the stem of a rose.  “You are far too fair to be considered an old maid.” He twists his wrist and plucks the rose from the bush, holding it out to her. 

“You’re just as free with your opinions as you are my uncle’s roses, it seems,” Regina says.  She takes the flower, bringing it up to her nose to smell it.  “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Locksley.”

“It is the truth, Miss Mills, and you are very welcome to it,” he tells her with a slight bow, and Regina turns on her heels, retreating from the garden and back into the house, rose clutched between her fingers.

When she returns to the room with the flower, Mary-Margaret insists that she add it to her costume, and so they tuck it behind her ear (“it looks like a spot of blood on all this white,” she protests, but Mary-Margaret is proud of her handiwork and so it stays).

The words of the carpetbagger Mr. Locklsey linger in Regina’s mind as she sits during the tableau, and for the first time in forever she allows herself to be something more than just a burden, more than just a spinster, more than just cold and barren and alone.  She thinks of winter mornings, sunlight across a frozen pond, the stillness of the earth, and thinks of the beauty of nature. 

She can be that.

And so she keeps her head high, her eyes forward, and when they happen to fall on a certain pair of blue eyes in the corner of the room, she finds it very hard not to smile.


	3. three

When Regina comes down to breakfast the morning after the tableau, she is surprised to find that she has beaten both her mother and her sister downstairs. Her father sits alone, studying the morning paper, as Regina takes her seat. She pours herself coffee from the silver carafe and goes about adding cream when her father clears his throat. 

"You are the talk of the town," Henry Mills announces, sliding the paper across the tablecloth to his daughter. 

"I doubt that," Regina responds, but she takes the paper eagerly, skims the article that Archie Hopper has written about the tableau. There, in black and white ink, is the following line: "And Miss Regina Mills, as our final season, gave us pause to remember and appreciate the austere beauty of a Winter landscape." The words are familiar (she can still remember the way that his mouth moved when he spoke them, the sparkle in his eyes); the compliment is what is still strange, and so she blushes under both this praise and her father’s beaming smile. 

"I am one of four girls mentioned in this," she tells her father, "but as long as you think I'm the fairest, Daddy, then I'm happy."

"Always, my darling." He reaches for her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles like he has since she was a girl. "You will always be the fairest in my eyes."

There is a racket on the stairs as Zelena and her troop arrive, Cora on their heels ushering the slowest one in (Regina thinks this one might be named Dorothy but she doesn’t particularly care). Regina folds the paper so that the article about the tableau is hidden from sight.

And yet, that is all that her mother and sister want to talk about. 

They dissect the costumes, comment on the girls ("That Belle French is quite shy, Ruby Lucas laughs too loudly") and issue no compliments for the entirety of breakfast. Everything about the tableau was gaudy or gauche in their eyes, and even though it is not explicitly stated, it is implied that Regina’s participation is also questionable.  


Regina sits, contemplating her eggs and pondering her escape. She is no longer hungry, not with the full might of both Zelena and Cora deflating the small surge of pride that her father and Mr. Locksley had given her. The tableau was one way to occupy her time and remove her from this house and now that it is over, her days stretch out before her, static yet uncertain. Perhaps that young Nolan boy will propose to Mary-Margaret; wedding planning would be a welcome diversion from club meetings and church…  


The maid enters and approaches Regina. There are a dozen red roses, bound in twine, cradled in her arms. She also clutches a note. "For Miss Regina," she says, holding them out towards her.  


Regina is surprised, but flattered, at the haphazard bouquet (the roses look familiar…). She takes the note, opens it and scans through its contents.  


A pitiful bouquet - borrowed not bought - but fitting for the Queen of Winter nonetheless.  


"Who is it from?" Cora asks, and Regina folds the note until it is very small.  


"A nameless admirer." Regina has every idea who sent the note and the roses - that thief, stealing from her uncle - and yet she will not tell her mother lest the woman start to get matchmaking ideas into her head. She'll enjoy the attention, but it is a harmless flirtation – nothing more. "Put these in water, would you please, Mary?"  


The maid takes the roses from Regina, and across the table Zelena purses her lips together, a witty retort no doubt on her lips, but Regina rises and places her napkin on the table before her sister can speak.  


"Perhaps I will go for a walk today," she tells no one in particular. She glances down the table. “Zelena, darling, Dorothy’s braids are in her porridge.” She bends over and places a kiss on her father's cheek, and leaves the room to the dulcet tones of Zelena scolding her youngest (Cora, Regina expects, must still be working out who sent her the roses).  


…  
The Storybrooke Library was heavily damaged during the war; afterwards, Belle French’s mother led the crusade to repair and restore the building, to modernize and expand, and her daughter took up the cross after her mother’s death. It has become Regina’s favorite place in Storybrooke, because it is a haven – away from her mother, from responsibility, from society.  


“Hello Belle,” she greets the young girl who sits at the desk in the reading room. Belle is practically vibrating with excitement, the newspaper spread out before her.  
“Did you read what Mr. Hopper wrote about the tableau?” she asks, eyes wide and grinning. “We should plan another!”  


“Mr. Hopper has a way with words,” Regina demurs. “You were splendid.”  


“Not like you, Regina – you were beautiful.” Belle’s eyes light up and she opens a drawer in the desk, pulls out a package. “The new Gazette – I saved it for you to read first before I put it out for everyone.”  


Regina smiles. She appreciates that Belle knows her proclivities, and that she is thoughtful enough to do this for her. Regina knows that she has edges, that she is not the most pleasant to be around, but Belle seems to ignore all of that in her ability to be genuinely kind to others who may not always deserve it.  


“Thank you,” Regina says, taking the package and unwrapping the paper. There is the newest issue of the Women’s Federated Gazette. “I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”  


Regina finds a small table in a secluded corner of the library and starts to read. She loves these magazines – for women, by women – because, in addition to the articles on motherhood which she skims when she is in a particularly self-loathing mood, they also have essays by women who have traveled abroad and who have seen far more than Regina has seen. She’s left Storybrooke – she attended women’s college in Greensboro for a few terms before Cora demanded she return home, she visited New York once with her father, and Kansas once to see Zelena – but she hasn’t been anywhere else, and there’s a wanderlust that takes her whenever she reads about another woman’s adventures. They’re all single, like her, and they all have means and are of a certain age where traveling alone is not so socially unacceptable.  


She sighs, turns the page to the ads for governesses and companions. On the darkest days of her soul, when Cora is too much, she’s thought about this before – working for a well-to-do family and leaving home, earning an income and having her own space. She could see herself in New York, with a small apartment (she could learn to cook and clean, and it would drive Cora mad).  


One ad catches her eye – placed by a Captain K. Jones and his wife, it requests a governess for their eleven year old son, and does not require extensive schooling as much as common sense and patience. _We will be leaving for the continent within the next few months and will need someone willing to join us as we start on a new adventure. Room and board, plus a small stipend (negotiable). Please direct all inquiries to Mrs. K. Jones, New York –_  


Regina closes the Gazette, her finger on the page, her heart racing. What if she inquired? What if she was able to go abroad – a military rank may not be inherited wealth but it might be something else entirely, and she takes a deep breath, opens the magazine again.  


At the worst, she writes and the position has been filled. At the best, they reply and ask more about her. At the very best, she may never have to see her mother or sister again.  
“May I borrow this?” she asks Belle, who solemnly agrees and makes her promise to take care of it and return it tomorrow. She does, slipping the Gazette into her coat pocket, and she leaves the library in higher spirits than she entered, because things seem better than they did yesterday and –  


She crashes into someone as she walks out of the building and only manages to keep herself upright by clutching onto their clothing. She grips the waistcoat securely, glancing up to say something, when she recognizes those eyes and that mouth and she inhales, sharply, all bluster disappearing.  


“I’m so sorry,” he says, helping her upright again, his hands on her hips (she is still clutching at his waistcoat, now more than aware of the hard muscles underneath the layers of clothing, the solidness of his male form as he leans his head towards her). “Are you all right, Miss Mills?”  


Regina lets go, noticing the pleats in his clothing, trying to still her racing heart. She takes another deep breath before looking back at him, a smile on her face. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Locksley,” she tells him. “I was just distracted.”  
“Daydreaming?” he asks, wry smile on his lips (why is he so close?) and Regina glances back to the library façade.  


“I did just exit a library, Mr. Locksley – you can hardly blame me if my head is in the clouds.” And then adds, for good measure, “I’m curious as to what your excuse is.”  


“Perhaps I was daydreaming as well,” he remarks, eyes searching her face for something, seeming to find it. “You were lovely last night, in case you haven’t been told that today.”  


Regina smiles, still pleasantly surprised at his compliment and the warmth that flows through her at his words. It has been some time since someone as handsome as Mr. Locksley has flirted with her, and she will enjoy every minute of it. “It’s a welcome change,” she admits. “Thank you, Mr. Locklsey.”  
“I saw someone drop some flowers by the Mills residence this morning,” he asks, looking out across the street and not at her. Regina laughs, and he turns back towards her, confused.  


“A thief – someone who stole flowers from my uncle’s garden, but…” she hesitates. She wants to tell him how she really feels, but he is a stranger, and so she knows she should follow the rules of society and be pleasantly courteous. Mr. Locklsey is looking at her intensely, concern etched on his handsome features, and she decides to through propriety to the wind.  


“It’s been a long time since anyone sent me flowers,” Regina admits. Her lip trembles a bit as she speaks the words, and so she ducks her head and looks away, playing with the sleeves of her coat before adding, “Thief or not, I should thank whoever did that for giving me a modicum of excitement in an otherwise tedious and lonely life.”  
There is a look that crosses Mr. Locksley’s face that Regina can’t quite read (at least, she doesn’t want to read it as pity) and so she nods her head, flashes her biggest smile, and says, “My sister is in town so I really must be going, Mr. Locksley. Have a lovely day.”  


As she turns to leave, she hears him reply, “And you as well, Miss Mills,” but his voice is soft and the sound of carriages make her think that she might be hearing things.  
On the walk home, she dissects the meeting from multiple angles and realizes how silly she sounds, admitting that the flowers made her joyful, admitting that her life is tedious and lonely– all to a stranger who barely knows her, who does business with her uncle and who will be gone within a fortnight. He must be this flirtatious with all the women in Storybrooke, and Regina should not consider herself better or lucky. The flowers were a random occurrence, and now that he knows how pathetic she is, she doubts that she will have to speak to him again.  


Regina writes the letter to Mrs. Jones that afternoon, laying out her case plainly and simply: she is thirty-five and unmarried, not well traveled but well-read, has some experience with her sister’s children but above all else she is adaptable and can be patient. She lists Mary-Margaret and Belle as references, seals the letter, and discretely has it sent out with the evening’s post.  


…  
There are flowers again the next morning.  


This time they are blue periwinkles – the sort that grow in Shepherd’s Field outside of town – still wrapped in twine, still with an unsigned note. It reads, _A lady as exquisite as you should receive flowers every day_. She knows immediately who it is from, and she is absolutely surprised  
Regina places the new bouquet on her dressing table next to the old one, and it is not until she sees them together that she realizes that she wore a periwinkle blue dress the day before.  


Flowers arrive with alarming frequency – not every day, but close enough, and usually after some social gathering or outing where they run into each other (though there are some days when they arrive apropos of nothing, and those are the best days). There are hothouse Orchids ‘borrowed’ from the French’s greenhouse, wildflower and daises, more roses appropriated from the various gardens across Storybrooke.  


Regina loves the flowers, but she finds the frustration that it causes in her mother even more satisfying. Cora cannot for the life of her guess who the mysterious suitor is (because that’s how Cora identifies him, as a suitor even if it is not the case) and all of her attempts to find him are fruitless.  
Regina writes Mr. Locksley a note of thanks, mails it from the post office to the bank even though she could just walk it to him. His response, in the next bouquet, includes instructions about leaving notes in the hollow of a particular abandoned tree in the park.  


She plays along, because even if this harmless flirtation, it makes her happy. She is bored with women’s club socials and bridge games, bored with high tea and time at the library. She likes the way that he makes her feel – alive and beautiful, not aged and worthless – and she wants to hold onto it as long as possible. And she knows, with every fiber of her being, when the bouquets stop, and when the notes end, and when nothing more comes of this, that it will break her and yet, she continues to accept the bouquets, starts to write notes and drop them in the hollow of the tree on early morning walks, notes about nothing and also unsigned, stories about her day or her favorite starts to linger in the park more now that the weather is better (his responses are always polite, including his favorite quotes as well as stories about his own day. She savors each and every word of every note before burning them lest Zelena or Cora find them).  


“Something’s going on,” Mary-Margaret points out one afternoon, when she meets up with Regina in the park. “You’ve been actually pleasant lately.”  
“I’m glad you set such a high bar for me,” Regina remarks archly, and Mary-Margaret sighs.  


“Not that – just that…you seem happy and –“ she squints off into the distance. “Is that Mr. Locksley from the bank?” Her brow furrows. “What’s he doing near that tree?”  
Regina watches, mouth agape, as Mr. Locksley pulls her note from the hollow of the tree, watches as he smiles while he opens it, and it makes her heart race and her face flush to see what she assumes to be happiness on his face as he reads her response.  


“Regina,” Mary-Margaret says, “what’s – “  


And then, his eyes rise to meet hers, and she can feel the ice running through her veins as he looks at her, and her stomach drop. He smiles, and beings to approach them.  
“Miss Blanchard, Miss Mills,” he calls out. “Lovely day for a walk.”  


“Yes it is,” Mary-Margaret says without missing a beat. She does not mention the note, makes small talk while Regina struggles to school her features, struggles to calm her traitorous heart as it beats, fast and furious, in her chest (it doesn’t help that Mr. Locksley keeps glancing over at her, keeps making it race). Finally he bids them goodbye, and Mary-Margaret pinches Regina’s arm.  


“Are you two passing notes?” she whispers, threading her arm through Regina’s and practically dragging her forward. Mary-Margaret is buzzing with – energy? excitement? something of that nature – and when Regina responds, “Perhaps,” she practically squeals.  


“That is so romantic, Regina – is he the one who sends you all those flowers? - oh Regina, he’s so handsome – “  


“It’s just a flirtation – a way to amuse an old maid,” Regina says, trying to deflect even if she is secretly pleased at her cousin’s enthusiasm. “Tell me about your newest idea,” she adds, changing the subject.  


They walk around the park as Mary-Margaret details a play she wishes to stage and when they part, Mary-Margaret promises not to tell a soul about Regina’s dalliance. Regina considers her cousin’s excitement on the way home, letting it propel her through the front doors of the house and right towards the mail tray, where a letter waits for her addressed from Mrs. K. Jones, New York –  


She races upstairs and tears it open, devouring the contents, skimming pleasantries and then -  


_My husband and I would like to learn more about you, Miss Mills. I will tell you about ourselves and our son, Henry, who is quite the precocious and charming young man. He is in love with fairy tales…_  


The letter is signed, _Emma Jones_ , and Regina reads it once more before she realizes that the Jones family, who she wrote to a few weeks ago, have inquired about her. Which means they might be interested in her, and might, potentially offer the position to her.  


Thoughts of traveling, of leaving here, flood her mind, and she pulls out pen and paper, begins to draft a reply. She can’t help but think of leaving Storybroke, and when her heart skips a beat as she thinks about the look on Mr. Locksley’s face, Regina firmly reminds herself that this is just a flirtation, nothing more (even if she’s not quite sure that she believes herself).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the reviews of this fic. I am so sorry that I fail miserably at responding to them - but I do notice them, and your kudos, and it means the world to me.

The play that Mary-Margaret chooses to stage is a collection of fables that Belle has been adapting for some time.   She enlists near all of their acquaintances in the production, from Ruby and Regina to even David Nolan, Mary-Margaret’s erstwhile suitor. When Regina arrives for practice, she is surprised to find that Mr. Locksley is there as well, apparently coerced by David (they run in the same men’s social circles, she soon learns, and that makes her nervous – if Mary-Margaret has said anything to her beau…)

But she hasn’t, because there is little about Mr. Locksley’s outward demeanor that indicates he finds her amusing; instead, his eyes seem to follow her everywhere with keen interest as she moves to a small alcove to practice lines with Ruby (she is to be the Town Mouse, and the other girl the City Mouse, in their vignette).

Regina has not had any type of male attention for some time, and so she can feel his blue eyes on the back of her neck, and it makes her more than aware of herself and her lines. It also makes practicing difficult, and she is grateful that there is a break for refreshments before the entire group assembles. She helps herself to lemonade, takes it to the veranda which is empty, the rest of the cast remaining indoors, away from the May heat.

She has always been a solitary creature, though not by choice, and so her head hurts from the prattle of her cousin and her friends, who talk about dresses and steal careful glances at the men on the far side of the room, who mingle in their own group.   She does not see why the sexes must be so separated, but she is also merely a grumpy old maid (men talk of politics and horse races and liquor and Regina would much prefer that to the cut of bustles or the color of ribbons).

“May I join you?” She recognizes his voice, and she can’t help the smile that spreads across her face as she hears him approach her, his shoes making soft _clacks_ on the wooden floor.

“If you’d like,” she tells him, taking a small sip of lemonade and watching as Mr. Locksley steps onto the veranda besides her. He holds his own glass of lemonade out towards her, indicating that they should toast.

“To Mary-Margaret’s latest production,” Regina says with a smile.

“Considering the success of the last one, I am grateful to be included in the ensemble.” He gives her a funny little smile, and Regina merely raises an eyebrow and turns back to admiring the side garden.

“Does the Town Mouse require solitude?” he asks after some time, and Regina shakes her head.

“The Town Mouse does not like aimless prattle,” she says, glancing back indoors. Ruby lets out a peal of laughter immediately after she finishes speaking, and Regina exchanges a sly look with Mr. Locksley that has him grinning from ear to ear. “And what about the Lion? Last I heard, they eat mice.”

“Were you not paying attention to Miss Blanchard’s explanations of the fables today, Miss Mills? The Lion shows mercy to the Mouse, and in turn the Mouse shows mercy to the Lion. Thus, mercy is its own reward.”

Regina inhales sharply. “Aesop clearly never had Cora Mills in mind,” she mutters under her breath, before looking back up at Mr. Locksley. “You do know your fables.”

He takes a step closer, leans against the veranda railing, and fixes her with a gaze that makes her blood run cold and her heart race. “I find that befriending mice is in the best interest of lions,” he says carefully.

Regina’s eyes narrow. “Are you trying to be my friend, Mr. Locklsey?” she asks, struggling to control her voice. There are emotions running through her that she cannot control, and she does not want to appear weak in front of this man.

Regina does not have many friends; all of her acquaintances from school have already married, and her sister was more or less competition, never a bosom companion. She’s learned to navigate life on her own, keeping her confidences with just her heart, and perhaps her cousin if the mood inspired her to be forthcoming. She assumes that her lack of friends relates to the absence of a congenial nature, which her cousin inherited but she did not. The thought of any friend, regardless of sex, is a strange one for her to consider.

The man across from her merely raises his eyebrows and responds, innocently, “Would that really be so hard to believe?”

“I know you’ve been in town a few weeks, Mr. Locksley, but surely you’ve noticed I’m no belle of the ball,” Regina points out. “I am accustomed to being on my own.”

“That I have noticed, and it vexes me,” he says, and the way that he says it – the low purr of his voice, the guttural way that he admits that he’s noticed – causes Regina’s breath to catch in her chest, and her mouth opens slightly, uncertain of how to respond.

She thought this was a harmless flirtation, but now she’s not entirely sure.

Luckily, they are interrupted by Mary-Margaret ringing a bell for them to return to practice, and so Regina quickly finishes her drink and brushes past Mr. Locksley with a nod, placing her cup on the silver tray and finding Ruby across the room.

Practice proceeds without interruption, though Regina’s mind spirals out of control and her forced reading of her lines is unacceptable to her cousin.

“Is everything all right?” Mary-Margaret whispers, and Regina merely nods. The other woman has never known the hardships that Regina has, due to her character and age; she has always had friends, has always had suitors, has never been alone.

When practice wraps up, Regina finds her hat and gloves in the hands of Mr. Locksley, who appears to want to consider their early discussion as he walks her home.

“I may have been too bold,” he apologizes, and Regina listens, does not comment. “I find you quite interesting, and a better conversant than most of the men and women in this town.” She wonders if he is referring to their correspondence via tree, and assumes that he is.

“I’m not used to this,” she tells him. “I’m not accustomed to anyone indulging a spinster in conversation or companionship.”

“Then perhaps I should indulge you more,” he responds, and her heart – so long ago broke and hastily reassembled - aches at the intensity of his gaze and the way that he looks at her – like he wants companionship and conversation, with and Regina cannot breathe.

“Stop,” she instructs them as they approach her house. It is within sight, and Mr. Locksley frowns at her, uncertain of what she is doing. Regina takes a deep breath, trying to force her lungs to function again, for her heart to resume its steady beats instead of this ridiculous stilted rhythm it currently wishes to have. She clears her throat.

“My mother is a…difficult,” she says with a smile.   “If you walk me to my door, she might assume something that is unfair of her to assume, and I would prefer to not have to explain to her that you are a…” her tongue trips on the unfamiliar word, “…friend.”

Mr. Locksley nods. “I respect your wishes.” He reaches for her hand, brings it to his lips (even through the glove she can feel the heat of his mouth and she suddenly wants more). When he lets go, it is with a nod and a smile.

Once her back is turned away from him, she cannot contain her happiness, the feeling that there is perhaps a silver lining hidden in her life. If he is really interested –if she can keep this from her mother – if it becomes more than a flirtation –

Regina smiles the entire way home, and not even the absence of any mail for her can wipe the smile from her face.

…

Play practice continues for some time, and Regina becomes friends with Robin Locksley. They take their lemonade on the veranda, they exchange glances across the crowded room, and he walks her home after every practice, drawing nearer and nearer to her house, becoming more bold and audacious with how long he kisses the back of her hand.

Mary-Margaret becomes wise to it when she notices them leaving one day after practice, and the next morning she invites Regina for a stroll through the park, practically giddy at this development in her cousin’s love life.

“Regina, you could not have a better suitor! Papa thinks the world of him, and he’s smart, and kind, and he’s your age, and he’s a widower, you know – “

“A widower?” Regina asks, surprised.   Of all the things they had talked about – mostly snippets of poems about their personalities, their interests, everything superficial and nothing deep (she knows he likes Twain; she told him she dislikes Dickens) – this has not come up.   Suddenly, hope swells in her chest because this is _definitely not_ a harmless flirtation, he will not return to a family, perhaps this is something more, a widower is perfectly acceptable –

“My mother doesn’t know, does she?” Regina asks, because she would have thrown Regina at the first widower (other than Mr. Gold, who she does keep flinging Regina towards at every social occasion). Mary-Margaret shakes her head.

“Only my father knows. Mr. Locksley likes to keep to himself, and so I don’t think its common knowledge.” She stops and turns to Regina. “I am so happy for you – this is so romantic!”

“It is,” Regina agrees. “Quite romantic.”

And yet, even as whatever it is grows between them, Regina is always aware of the fact that he may very well leave, and she will be alone in Storybrooke, with her heart once again broken. And, despite all of this, she still allows the glances and touches, and walks home.

It is nice to feel something good for a change.

It helps, too, that her correspondence with the Jones family of New York has slowed to a halt. She had been corresponding with them on a fairly frequent basis, and the content of the letters has grown more congenial, more personal, as they get to know each other more.   But she has told no one save Mary-Margaret and Belle, who she asked to be her references should the Jones family inquire.

Yet they have not, and there has not been a letter in some time, and so Regina assumes they have chosen someone else, that she has not met muster in yet another way in her life.

Soon, it is the presence of Mr. Locksley (Robin, she calls him when she is alone, remembering the heat of his palm and his lips) that gets her out of her bed in the morning. On the days when there is no practice, she is a ghost, haunting the halls of the house, idling over breakfast, spending too much time in the library with nothing to pass the time, as she has for years and years. It is growing tedious, and yet she cannot break the tedioum.

(She wonders if a heart can break twice, and if that twice-broken instrument can be pieced back together again.)

…

After weeks of rehearsal, it is the night of the play, and Regina finds herself despondent. She wonders what will happen with ~~Robin~~ Mr. Locksley after tonight. Will he attempt to become a proper suitor? Will he simply disappear from view? Will they go back to silly notes in trees and flowers left in the early light of morning?

Regina’s vignette goes well, as does his own. It is not until the final fable, of the grasshopper and the ant, that anything interesting happens: David Nolan has changed the dialogue of the grasshopper. He delivers a speech to Mary-Margaret (a befuddled ant) about taking care of her always and forever and never leaving her unprepared and when he pulls out his grandmother’s diamond ring from his pocket to present to her, the entire room applauds. Her uncle calls for champagne and refreshments, and her aunt cries happily.

Regina is happy for her cousin – truly, there is no person more worthy of love than Mary-Margaret, and no better man to love her than David Nolan. And yet, there is a part of Regina that is deeply envious. It has been so long since Regina has been loved that she is not even sure if she was loved at all, or if it was merely a figment of her imagination.

She wishes her cousin the best, wishes David the best, and speaks briefly with her aunt and uncle before slipping outside, away from the crowd and the champagne toasts (she grabs a flute on her way out, drinks it all in one gulp once she’s outside). There’s a bitter taste in the back of her mouth that cannot be the alcohol but must be her jealous, venial nature, to be so unkind, to make this happy moment about her.

She is a broken person, a shallow wretch. She should be inside celebrating, but the very thought of leaving the garden freezes her in place.

There is movement behind her, and she does not turn around to know who it is (he always finds her, regardless of the circumstances). “Aren’t you going to toast the happy couple?” she asks.

“I already did,” he replies. “I found I had more pressing concerns.”

Regina turns to him, shaking her head. She is tired of dancing around everyone and everything, tired of being the unmatched female at a dinner party, the old maid in the corner of the room. She is tired of not being enough for anyone, either as a friend or employee, and she is tired of this constant flirtation that does little to satisfy her and only makes her more wretched and desperate.

“I am no one’s concern but my own,” she tells him, trying to hold her head high but it is weighted down with unshed tears. He shakes his head, takes a step forward, and reaches out towards her, brushing his thumb across the apple of her cheek.

“You concern me,” he tells her.   “What is the matter?”

“Nothing.” Regina finds she is unable to pull away from him; instead, she turns her head into the touch like a cat being petted.   “I am happy for them.”

“You don’t seem very happy at the moment, Regina,” he says, and her name on his lips sends a wave of warmth through her body.

“I’m envious of my cousin,” she admits plainly. “I’m jealous that she has what I desperately want.” She does not hide from her wants, but tells him, because at this point it does not matter. He, like the others, probably has his mind made up about her.

“And what is it that you want, Regina?” he asks, and hearing her name makes her close her eyes (he is so near her, too near, his hand still on her face) and when she opens them again, the look that he has on his face is indescribable.

“I want someone to take better care of my heart than I do,” is her response. He nods his head, glances at her lips.

“Than can be arranged,” he says, and then his lips are on hers and she forgets everything – every thought, every word, every objection. His lips are soft against hers, questioning, and then his tongue traces the corner of her mouth and she gives herself fully to him. He tastes likes champagne and sugar (they must be serving sweets), and the rasp of his beard against her chin only stokes the fire within her, making her knees weak and her belly ache. She reaches out for him, fingers grasping the lapel of his evening coat, pulling him towards her. He groans when her fingers brush against his neck.

She moves again, wrapping her arm around him, but the champagne flute she had been clutching so desperately slips out of her grasp. At the the sound of glass shattering on the stone pathway, they break apart.

Regina has not been kissed in years, but Daniel never kissed her like that. She runs her fingertips over his lips, watches as Robin (he cannot be Mr. Locksley ever again) licks his own. She wonders what she tastes like to him.

“I better return to the party,” she tells him, her legs shaky as she tries to walk past him. He stops her, hand on her elbow.

“When can I see you again?” he asks, voice ragged and raspy.

Regina blinks, smiles. “You know where to find me,” she tells him slyly, slipping out of his grip and walking up the stairs (she holds onto the railing for dear life, frustrated by her weakened state). Before she reenters the house, she runs her fingers over her lips once more, straightens her shoulders, and doesn’t stop the grin that threatens to overtake her.

Then, she opens the door and rejoins the impromptu party.

The ride home is full of discussion of the wedding, and Regina keeps thinking about the feel of Robin against her, the movement of his lips. She is in a daze as she walks up the steps to the front door, where a telegram awaits her.

It is from the Jones family; they want her to come to New York to meet in person. They will pay for her train tickets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. five

There is a swing in the back garden of Regina’s home, hung from an old oak tree. The tree itself is old – ancient, practically – and the leaves form a thick green canopy overhead. The light that does pierce through the leaves is just enough to make the backyard feel welcoming and safe, and Regina pushes her heels off the ground, rocking the swing gently.

“He kissed you?” Mary-Margaret asks, and Regina can hear the smile that is clearly spreading across her cousin’s face. “What was it like?”

“Surely you’ve been kissed by David before,” Regina tells her cousin with an eye roll, and Mary-Margaret blushes furiously. She kicks off the ground a little aggressively.

“Well yes, but…David’s a boy,” she remarks. “Robin Locksley is very much a man.” The way that she points this out makes Regina remember the kiss all over again – it was very much the kiss of a man who knew what he was doing, and Regina feels her face flush at the thought.

"What do I do?” she asks, more to herself than anyone else. She’s already told Mary-Margaret about the Jones’ invitation, and is not at all surprised to find out that the family has already reached out to contact her cousin and Belle.

“What do you want to do?” Mary-Margaret replies, and Regina is surprised to realize she doesn’t know. She wants to see what happens with Robin, but she is very wary of putting all of her eggs in one basket. The invitation to New York is not something that promises future employment, but it does offer her some respite from life in Storybrooke, especially if whatever is happening between her and Robin fades sooner rather than later.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she responds, the words exiting out of her mouth before she can catch herself. “I don’t want to stay here and be Regina Mills, old maid. I’m tired of being put up on my shelf, and would very much like to come down from it once and for all.”

The words resonate so deeply that she stands up, walks away from the swing, arms crossed over her chest. She steps out from the shade and into the sun, angling her head up until the warmth floods her face (she is so very cold the more that she thinks about her current predicament). She does not want to be alone: with Robin, she would have the promise of finally having someone care for her heart; with the Jones family, she would be able to care for someone else in a way that might prove to be a welcome respite.

Regina hears Mary-Margaret’s footsteps, but it surprised to feel her cousin’s arms come around her, holding her tightly.

“Make the arrangements for New York for next month,” Mary-Margaret suggests. “Meet with Robin in the meantime. You can come to our house – the gazebo is secluded, and you can tell Aunt Cora that you’re helping me with the wedding. If nothing happens after a month, then you’ll know what you should do.”

Her cousin’s actions and words make Regina feel more at ease than she’s felt in a long time, and with a shaky hand she reaches up, rests her own over Mary-Margaret’s, which are joined above her waist. She says nothing, just nods. It is not the best plan, but it is one that will suffice.

…

Every day, Regina walks to Mary-Margaret’s house at noon (she dines with Zelena and her monkeys each morning first, going through the polite motions, counting down the hours until she can flee). Her mother is quite pleased that she is helping Mary-Margaret, because this wedding will be the society event of the year and being family of the bride means a place of honor in the church and at the dinner that will follow. She pries details out of Regina the moment she returns home each day but Regina, with the way that her afternoons have been, does not mind supplying them.

She spends her time chatting with Mary-Margaret and Aunt Ava, and looking at numerous magazines and meeting with dressmakers and tasting so many confections that Mary-Margaret swears her teeth hurt. And then, around two, as Aunt Ava leaves to make her afternoon social calls, Regina heads to the garden, and the gazebo surrounded by magnolias.

He is always waiting for her.

Her heart always lurches when she finds him there, leaning against the white wood, hat placed on the railing. He smiles at her, his hand reaching for her, and she returns to his embrace easily, eager to be reacquainted with his touch, with his lips, with the feel of his solid form pressed against her own.

When she first suggested the location of their dalliance, she was afraid that he would think it childish or, at worst, presumptuous, to escape to a secluded location where they would not be seen and where they could kiss and talk to their heart’s content, but he readily agreed.

“Much like a fairy tale,” he tells her one afternoon, brushing a stray hair behind her ear, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw, the contours of her neck. “I feel as if I am a prince, stealing away to meet his princess.”

“Don’t princes usually meet their princesses under cover of night?” Regina teases, cheeks burning because that sort of thing is not what proper ladies say, and if his eyes darken and he swallows obviously at her words, she tries not to notice, only leaning forward to kiss him again.

They do more than kiss – they talk, about the same things they wrote about in their letters. He reminds her, often and with great sincerity, how fascinating he finds her, how beautiful she is, and she is always uncomfortable with his praise (it has been too long since anyone save her cousin said something nice about her that she is wary and cautious and frightened all at once).

One day, she asks about the rumor that he is a widower. “I don’t mean to pry,” she says as her way of apologizing, and Robin laughs (she loves his laugh, the richness of it, the way that it reverberates through her entire being, filling her with his joy).

“I hardly think it inappropriate, given the current nature of our relationship, for me to disclose that sort of information,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before stepping back. “Her name was Marian, and she died five years ago.” He tells her about his wife – how she was always ill, how he loved her, but how he was grateful that her death took her away from her suffering.

When he is done, she tells him about Daniel. It has been some time since she has spoken with anyone about her betrothed – everyone in Storybrooke already knows the story, and no one asks anymore because it’s been far too long. She was but a child when she met Daniel compared to how she is now, and for the first time, standing in front of Robin, she realizes that she is no longer sad. He is not what defines her life any longer; she is.

The thought is a powerful one indeed.

…

It is a Thursday afternoon, and they have been sitting, exchanging kisses and stories, for some time. Regina feels drunk on his kisses, on the way that his hands skim her shoulders and neck, never dipping lower, on the way that he seems to purr when her fingers twist in the hair at the nape of his neck. He breaks their kiss, rests his forehead against her own, struggling to catch his breath.

“I have to go back to Philadelphia,” he tells her, “just for a few days.”

Regina nods, noticing the way that he studies her – like he’s trying to commit her face to memory – and a small seed of doubt is planted in her heart.

They have been meeting for nearly three weeks, trading kisses and stories and sighs, but she has not said anything about New York or the Jones family, nor has she demanded any sort of promise from him. She has waited for him to mention anything like future plans, but he has not, and so she cannot help but assume that this is merely a distraction for him (she knows she has no evidence to support this, knows that he looks at her in such a way that makes her feel alive like she never has before, but old habits die hard, and old insecurities never die, not in the face of such uncertainty).

When they part, she makes a decision. Her father is in his study when she comes home, and Regina knocks on the door twice before entering.

His eyes light up when he sees her (she has always been the apple of his eye) and she hates what she is about to tell him, but knows that it is necessary.

“I’m going to New York next week, Daddy,” she says, hands gripping the back of the leather chair that sits in front of his desk. “I have an interview to be a governess with a wealthy family who plans to travel to the continent.”

The look that crosses her father’s face is one of sadness and resignation, and in that moment he looks so very old (they are all, she supposes). He nods, as if he understands her predicament, and she thinks that he might, more than her mother or her sister or cousin, more than anyone else in this town.

“You do what you think is best, my darling,” he tells her. “I have done my best to make you happy, to make this life a comfortable one for you, but I think I’ve always known that you needed more than I could give you.”

He smiles, and she rushes to his side, dropping her knees, placing her hands on the armrest of his chair. He reaches down to stroke her forehead like he always has, gentle and careful, and Regina has never loved her father more than she does right now.

“Go discover what life has in store for you,” he urges her, “and leave your mother to me.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she says, standing. She presses a kiss to his forehead before racing up the stairs (she has to pack for New York, after all).

…

Regina leaves for the train station before dawn on Tuesday.

She has not told her mother about her plans, but it does not surprise her to find the other woman waiting at the foot of the stair, hands folding in front of her, calmly gazing at her younger daughter while she arranges for her trunks to be loaded into the carriage and taken to the train station.

“You look quite fetching in that dress,” her mother says, and Regina’s breath catches in her throat as she waits for the other shoe to drop (Cora Mills does not believe in half measures). “I hope that you have a safe journey.”

“That’s it?” Regina asks bluntly, and her mother looks startled by her words. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“Well my darling,” her mother says, “it’s quite obvious that there is no future for you in Storybrooke. I had thought, for a time, that perhaps one of the wealthy Northern bankers would take an interest in you – that Mr. Locksley has stolen far too many glances than appropriate – but I can see that you appeal to none of them.” Cora leans forward, brushes her lips against Regina’s cheek. “Perhaps life as a governess would suit you better.”

“I will be back on Friday, just in time for the engagement party,” Regina says, clenching her left hand into a fist, trying to stop the rage that boils inside of her. It takes all of her energy to not lash out, to not point out that perhaps Mr. Locksley found her appealing, but she realizes that she doesn’t know that for sure. There is nothing about their dalliance that speaks to a future, and she’s not even sure that he will return from Philadelphia anyway (the seeds of doubt have been growing, nurtured by her own fears, tendrils of apprehension spreading throughout her heart, throughout her soul). “I will see you then, Mother.”

Regina brushes past her on her way out of the house. She takes her seat in the carriage, closes her eyes, and tries very hard to breath in and out, to focus on the sound of the horses as they head towards the station – anything to calm the storm that is raging inside of her, the tempest created by her mother’s words and her own fear that _what if her mother is right?_

The train station is quite busy that morning – there is a train arriving just as Regina steps out of the carriage, telling the servants where to take her luggage. She grips her handbag tightly, and then turns when she hears a familiar laugh.

Disembarking from the arriving train is Robin, and he is staring at the doorway, arms outstretched. Regina watches as a small boy jumps into his arms, and her mouth opens in surprise.

Robin has a son.

Robin has brought his son to Storybrooke from Philadelphia.

She is rooted in place, watching the two of them – Robin with his fair hair, the young boy with his dark curls –and she cannot help but stare at the appealing picture that they make, focused only on each other, Robin listening as his son tells him something about the train, gesturing wildly with his tiny hands and arms as his father listens intently. Robin places his son on the ground, grabs his hand as he tells the porters where to take his bags, and that is when his eyes find Regina’s.

A shock goes through her entire body at the way that he smiles at her, gripping his son’s hand tighter and approaching her quickly.

In the background, the conductor announces that the train to New York will be leaving in ten minutes.

“Miss Mills,” Robin says with a wide grin, “I am quite surprised to see that I have a welcoming committee. Surely you have not been waiting long.” She opens her mouth to respond but the little boy is pulling on his father’s hand and so Robin turns back to her. “May I introduce my son, Roland Locksley. Roland, this is Miss Mills.”

Regina smiles, holds out her hand for Roland to take (he is quite shy but with his father’s insistence he shakes her hand, bowing slightly, and it is adorable). “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Roland.”

“My pleasure, Miss Mills,” Roland responds, and Regina’s heart melts at the sweet tone of the young boy, the way that he looks at her with big brown eyes. “You have a son,” she says to Robin, who nods.

"I thought to collect him and bring him here for you to meet,” he tells her, and Regina looks away, uncertain of how to react. This is all news to her, and she is to board a train for New York (how can he be telling her this now?)

“Is something wrong, Miss Mills?” Robin looks worried, and Regina takes a deep breath.

“I’m traveling to New York,” she says. “I am interviewing with a family for a position as governess.” Her words sound hollow in her ears as she speaks them. “This is news,” Robin says, and there is tension in his shoulders as he speaks, a stricken look on his face, and Regina can’t help but point out, “so is your son.”

“I’m sorry,” he begins, as the conductor tells them that the train will leave in five minutes. Regina takes a step back, a step away from him and his precious boy. There are too many thoughts in her head, each threatening to crowd the other out, and she cannot – will not – fall to pieces in front of him. “I should have told you sooner – “

“What purpose would that serve?” she asks brusquely. “You have not entirely been clear with your intentions, Mr. Locksley, and I am tired of living my life in such a state.” Regina feels tears prick at the corner of her eyes, feels her soul swell as she tells this to him. She is tired of living her life as it is, and she wants more, and she will claim it if she can. She takes a step towards, the train, smiling at Roland, not looking at Robin. He calls out, “Regina!” once, as her foot touches the metal step, her fingers gripping the rail.

“I return on Friday, Mr. Locksley,” she tells him, offering him the information, having him decide what to do with it (as for her, she’s not entirely sure what she will do with the knowledge that she will return to him and his son, to Mary-Margaret and her David, to parties and celebrations of love).

She finds her seat in the first class cabin, rests her head against the cool velvet, and closes her eyes. In the days since he left for Philadelphia, she has tried hard not to think about him but his kiss lingers in her veins and so she dreams of him. She does not dream of a life with him, or a future, because dreaming of that never did her any good, and yet, seeing him with his son, she wonders what it would be like – to be a mother.

She has not thought about it since Daniel’s death, but once she desired it, craved a child of her own, wondered what it would be like to hold an infant in her arms, to see her loving husband gaze upon them. This would not be the same – this is not a child of her body, but rather of his wife’s, and suddenly she’s not even sure if this has been about her, or about finding the boy a new mother. The thoughts come rapidly, one after the other, the storm continuing to rage, feeding that small growth of apprehension in her heart, in her soul.

She cannot do this, allow herself to unravel at the loss of one good thing when another is still ahead of her, still waiting for her in New York.She takes a deep breath, and stares out the window at the passing countryside, vowing to not think of Robin or his son until she returns.

(She fails.)

(Her failure is not her own fault.)

She is to be met at the train station in New York by Captain Jones himself, and so, when she steps onto the platform and spies the handsome man with dark hair and bright blue eyes in military dress, she smiles at him.

"It is good to meet you, Miss Mills,” he says, the slightest hint of an accent in his words as he escorts her to his carriage. “Henry has been very excited since he learned you were coming.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Regina admits, adding, “Thank you for your generosity in handling the details of this trip.”

"Thank you, for being willing to come and meet us in person before making your decision,” Captain Jones tells her, and she is surprised that it is _her_ decision, not theirs.

As they ride through the city, he points out the landmarks but mostly Regina watches the people. There are so many of them, each wandering the street, fulfilling their own destiny, and she thinks of what it might be like to be one of many here – not Regina Mills, but just another face in the crowd. She finds it immensely appealing, to be able to start a new life so easily.

The carriage stops in front of a neat brownstone, and Captain Jones helps her out, escorting her up the stairs and into the front hall, where a maid takes her hat and gloves and a servant fetches her luggage. Before she can get situated, there is a mad commotion on the stairs and she is greeted, for the second time today, with a young man - older than Roland Locksley, with brown hair and brown eyes and a wide grin, and she thinks of the young boy and his father that she left behind her in Storybrooke.

"You must be Miss Mills!” he says in greeting, and she smiles, forcing away all thoughts of Storybrooke, thinking only of the present.

“You must be Henry,” she says, stretching out her hand, and instead of a child’s shy handshakes, she gets one that bears some semblance of a young man (or, at least, the young man the boy wants to be – he is only ten years old, after all). “I am so very glad that I am here to meet you.”


	6. six

Regina sips at her tea, watching Henry as he peruses the shelves of the library, intently looking for something to show her. To her right sits his mother, Emma, watching him with a faint smile on her face.

“I must have left it upstairs!” Henry finally announces, dashing out of the room, and Emma chuckles, sharing an amused look with Regina as she put her own teacup down.

Regina has been here one day, but it already feels…comfortable. The Jones family has welcomed her into their home eagerly, and she is utterly out of her depths here. Watching their interactions as a family as they ate dinner together the previous evening was incredibly enlightening, for multiple reasons, the least of which was the obvious fact that Captain Jones was not Henry’s father.

Regina remembers the shock she felt when Emma Jones appeared, blonde hair and green eyes, and how, upon further inspection, she determined that Henry resembled his mother and not his father. And yet, watching them interact so easily over the dinner table last night, she never once would have guessed that they weren’t blood relations (not with the way that Captain Jones teased the young boy, not with the way that Henry was deferential and respectful, caring and kind to the man).  

As she slipped beneath the sheets that night, she thought about the predicament that she left behind at the train station (Roland’s wide eyes and his father’s sad ones linger in her mind, and she sees them clear as day when she finally turns down the oil lamp beside her bed). She falls asleep wondering what it would be like, to raise someone else’s child.   She has often considered this due to her advanced age and potential marriage prospects, but it’s never been something she would willingly choose for herself.

Until now. Until Robin entered her life – and, in many ways, the Jones family, for isn’t being a governess just a little bit like raising a child? She may not do the disciplining, but she would come to love Henry in time as he learned from her, she knows it.

“He has a book on the history of New York that he wants to show you,” Emma Jones tells her, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Because this is your first time here, he wants to tell you all about it.”

“I’d be delighted to learn more about your city,” she tells Emma, who smiles kindly.

“Not entirely our city,” Emma points out. “We’re originally from Boston – we moved here when I married Killian.”

“Well I’ve never been to Boston either – I hope Henry will tell me about that as well,” she says, trying to be polite even though she is more than interested in what Emma is telling her.   Emma nods and reaches for her teacup.

“Henry doesn’t remember much about Boston – I married Killian when he was four, and we’ve been here ever since,” Emma says as she takes a sip of her tea. “Killian was already stationed here, already doing well, and so it made sense to move and wait to see where the winds would take us.”

Regina nods. Emma does not seem to care much for discussing her past affairs, launching into talk of where they are off to next which, apparently, is not the continent, but rather to Asia and Australia. Regina feels a prick of anxiety at this change of plans, but she shouldn’t be surprised – all of the papers and popular magazines are full of stories all the time of Americans moving abroad, usually missionaries, but she supposes naval officers and their families go as well. She’s never been particularly adventurous, but she’s ready for a change of scenery.

“Is Henry excited about that?” Regina asks, and Emma raises her eyebrows.

“Ask him when he returns,” she says, just as they both hear the stomp of a young boy’s feet as he comes barreling down the stairs.   Henry clutches a book in his arms, and he runs towards Regina eager to show it to her. It is an atlas, full of pictures of the world and this country.

They spread the atlas out on the floor, and Regina joins Henry on the plush carpet, glancing back only to find that Emma has disappeared and left her with her son. She tries not to be nervous, wondering if this is an informal part of the process, and instead turns her attention to the boy, who is all smiles and excitement as he begins to flip through the pages.

“My father taught me where we will be going,” Henry tells her, crawling around on all fours and pointing to various locations on the map. Regina follows along, asking questions where necessary but mostly content to just watch him. He is delightful, and her heart swells at the thought of being his teacher, of spending her days watching him grow.

And then, she thinks of another young boy with brown eyes too, and her heart throbs in her chest.

…

Her time in New York passes quickly, spent in the company of Henry and his parents, lost in their pleasant little world. She has never seen so much love within a family, has never experienced such kindness and grace – not even Mary-Margaret’s family is so loving, she realizes.

Henry hugs her as she prepares to leave, and she can’t help but smile at the way that his arms wrap around her waist.

“See you soon, Miss Mills,” he tells her before scampering off into the house. Emma offers a polite smile and a hug as well as she says her goodbyes (she is surprised at how informal these people are, and she likes it) and then Regina is following Captain Jones out into the street, to the carriage that will take her to the train, which will take her home to Mary-Margaret’s engagement party (and to confront the man she left behind).

“So now you’ve met our family,” Captain Jones says as they ride towards the station. “I hope you will give us the courtesy of your answer before long.”

“I didn’t know it was up to me,” Regina remarks, still uncertain that it’s her decision, not theirs.

“Henry is smitten, and my wife and I believe that you would be a welcome addition to our home,” he answers, eyes twinkling, and Regina can’t help but smile. No one has ever wanted her to be part of their family as much as the Jones family does (at least, no one has told her outright).

She thinks about Robin constantly, wondering if he does want a mother for Henry, wondering if he would ask her to fill that role. She thinks she could do it – she’s well aware of the responsibilities of a wife – but there’s a part of her that aches for the love that she’s seen clearly displayed between Captain Jones and his wife.

“May I ask you a personal question?” she asks, and Captain Jones raises an eyebrow before he nods.

“Go right ahead,” he responds, and Regina folds her hands in her lap, looks down at her fingers.

“Was it difficult – for you to come to love someone else’s child?” she asks, knowing that her question may very well signify the termination of their professional relationship. To his credit, Captain Jones does not look shocked.

“No,” he tells her. “You’ve met the lad – he’s quite the little charmer, isn’t he?” When Regina laughs, he laughs as well. “When I met my wife, her husband had been dead for several years, so he had no memory of the man. But I was terrified – how was I going to replace the father he never knew?” Captain Jones scratches the back of his neck, and Regina waits.

“How did you?” she asks. Captain Jones smiles.

“I didn’t. I became Henry’s father, but on my own terms, without the ghost of his other father hovering over my shoulder. I love that boy like he’s my own flesh and blood, and I barely remember that he’s not.” There is a happiness in his face when he talks about Henry that eases Regina’s tempestuous soul, calms the storm that still rages within her.   Even if all that Robin wants from her is to raise his child, she thinks that it might be something she could manage.

“Thank you, for telling me that,” Regina says, glancing back at her hands once more.

“You’ll come to love the child, just as sure as you love their father,” Captain Jones says suddenly, and Regina looks up, terrified that he has seen through her so easily. “You’re an open book, lass – I’ve noticed your cautiousness in accepting our offer, and I was fairly certain you would have agreed immediately had there not been some complication.”

Regina takes a deep breath, nods. “There is a complication,” she admits, “the nature of which I don’t fully grasp – yet. I hope to better understand when I arrive home this evening.”

The carriage stops, and Captain Jones exits first, helping her out onto the street in front of the busy train terminal. He escorts her to her train, making sure that her baggage is loaded before bidding her goodbye.

“Good luck with your decision,” he tells her. “The hardest decisions we have are often the best that we’ll ever make.”

_You’ll come to love the child just as sure as you love their father_. She can’t let go of Captain Jones’ words, because for the first time, she realizes that she may very well love Robin (at least, whatever love means to her now, which is so very different than when she loved Daniel).  But there is a part of her, however small, that wonders if he cares for her the same way.

_You concern me_ , he said to her the night they first kissed.   She thinks about those words the entire ride home, watching the countryside. She has never been anyone’s concern – burden, yes, but never a concern – and the thought is a strange one to consider.

…

Robin is waiting for her at the station.

She spots him when her feet touch the ground, and he approaches her before she can compose herself. He is alone, and she is almost grateful for it, because the nature of their conversation is not one she wishes his son to witness.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he tells her, before she can even check to see if there is someone from the house to take her home. She glances around him, finally spotting Billy, approaching from where he left the carriage.   She turns back to Robin (just looking at him makes her face flush and her heart race, what if she’s been so presumptuous about his intentions, so presumptuous about his affections, but she is his _concern_ \- )

“I don’t have time to talk about this right now,” she tells him firmly. “Mary-Margaret’s dinner is tonight and I have to get ready.” Not only that, but she can no longer control her mind, is helpless as it spins out of her control the moment she sees him, they moment that they speak (she is a confused mess, she cannot do this, she has to walk away- )

She moves past him, gesturing for Billy to take her luggage, to carry them to the carriage.

“We should talk - when can I see you alone?” he asks, and she stops. There is a war inside of her – she wants to be alone with him and yet she doesn’t. She wants to talk to him, and yet she doesn’t. She’s not sure what his apology means, not within the context of anything that has happened between them.

She’s never been anyone’s concern before.

Regina takes a deep breath. Her mother might be an overbearing witch, but she taught both of her daughters that the key to social success was maintaining the illusion of control. Emotions have always been Regina’s weakness, and she thought she had taught herself to lock away her feelings ages ago, when the first whispers about her unmarried status started to circulate through the parlors of Storybrooke. She thought she was better than letting everything consume her soul (in the middle of the Storybrooke train station no less).

She was wrong.

She’s never been anyone’s concern before.

She takes a deep breath before the plunge.

“Goodbye, Mr. Locksley,” she says, turning to him and fixing a cold smile on her face (she has become Winter, beautiful and austere, the blood running icily through her veins).   The look on his face is utterly despondent as she turns and walks towards her carriage, refusing to look back.

The ride home is spent in silence, as she tries (and fails) to not think about him, and she practically runs up the stairs to her bedroom, closing the door behind her once her luggage is returned. She lays face-down on her bed, grabbing her pillow and clutching it tightly to her chest. Her thoughts return to the Jones family, the way that Captain Jones looked at his wife, the way that she returned his gaze, and never has Regina wanted that marital intimacy more than right now, when she’s thrown away her last chance at that happiness all together, left behind to wither and die at the station.

Captain Jones was right: she would have accepted the offer weeks ago, before Robin, before she knew that there could be something else in her life. She would have accepted it immediately if she felt that she had no other options. The only reason she applied was because she wanted something better than this life, and now there’s something better at her fingertips, and she has let it slip away.

The tears come, fierce and violent, and she sobs into the pillow until her chest heaves and her nose runs. She sits up slowly, dizzy in her grief, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks swollen, her hair a mess, all because she was crying for _him_.

And that is when Regina knows, without a doubt, that she loves him.

She loves him and his stupid notes and the flowers he brought her, the way that he was so gentle when he kissed her, the way that he looks as her like she’s something other than who she thinks she is. She wants to love his son, the little boy with big brown eyes and brown curls, the little boy who looks like he could be her own child. She wants whatever he will offer her, because as lovely as the Jones family was, as welcoming and open, she does not think that she can let go of the idea that she might have to give up the possibility of her own family, not when it might be so close.

Presuming that he wants her, still (he did meet her at the train station, after all).

Regina runs her fingers across her cheek, brushing the trail of tears away. She cannot go to the party looking like this (not that she wants to go to the party but she must, it would be poor behavior of her not to attend, not after all that Mary-Margaret has done for her).   She knows Robin will be there, but she takes a deep breath, and vows not to think of it until she sees him.

She rings for a maid to draw a bath, and glances back at the wretched woman in the mirror. She sets her shoulders back, tilts her chin upwards. She just has to make it through tonight. That is all. Tonight is not about her. It is about Mary-Margaret, and she will drink champagne and celebrate her happiness.

Tomorrow, she will try to right the wrong she has made today.

Her mother knocks on her door as she is lining her eyes with kohl, paying careful attention to their almond shape.   Cora leans against the jamb, fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist, watching Regina.

“I heard that Mr. Locksley met you at the train station today,” she says. Regina does not react (she will not give her mother tinder to fuel the fire of her self-doubt) nor is she surprised that someone noticed and told her mother.

“He did,” she tells her mother. She waits with bated breath to hear what is next, dipping her brush back into the pot of kohl.

“I also hear that he has walked you home from your uncle’s house,” Cora adds, stepping closer. She reaches past Regina, selects an ornament from the jewelry box. She twists it into Regina’s elaborately-done hair, adding more embellishment.

“He has,” Regina tells her mother. She finishes one eye, proceeds to the other.

“I also heard he has a young son,” Cora remarks, brushing her hands across Regina’s neck, straightening the exaggerated high collar of her gown.

“He does,” she says, feeling the tension in the room grow. She is careful to avoid her mother’s gaze.

“How interesting. Perhaps in your old age you’ve decided that you’d much prefer to be a nursemaid rather than a wife,” Cora remarks. “You look lovely in red, darling. Be careful with your rouge –you don’t want to look like a harlot.”

With that statement, Cora turns and exist the room, leaving Regina alone to her thoughts. She tries, but fails, to wonder if whether or not her mother is right about her – too old to be a pretty young wife, just the right age for someone’s nurse, since she’ll never have children of her own at this age.

She places the pot of kohl down and stares at her reflection in the mirror. _She will not cry, she will not cry_ …

She smiles at herself, noticing way that her mouth curves upwards, the coldness of her expression. “I’m so very happy for you both,” she says, practicing what she will say to her cousin (and if her smile does not quite meet her eyes, well, she doubts anyone will notice).

…

“Uncle Leopold has outdone himself,” Zelena remarks as they step out of the carriage and onto the path. There are paper lanterns lighting the way, paper lanterns hanging from the pergola over the footpath, strung across the porch, decorating every surface. There are servants with champagne who greet them upon arrival, and Regina quickly grabs a flute, taking a sip.

Mary-Margaret and David are the center of attention, and Regina has to admit that her cousin has never looked more beautiful, awash in the glow of new love.  Her eyes fall on Regina and she grows brighter, if that’s even possible, pushing past the others to latch onto her cousin’s hand and draw her into the small front parlor.

“You look beautiful,” Regina remarks, but Mary-Margaret is buzzing with energy as she picks up a rose and a note from a nearby side table.

“Mr. Locksley brought this for you,” she tells Regina, smile wide. “He says to read the note, and then to make your decision.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to Regina’s cheek before darting out of the room, leaving Regina alone.

She sighs, finishing the glass of champagne before placing it and the rose on the table. She opens the note.

_My darling Regina –_

_I know have done little in the past week to endear myself to your good graces, but I feel that I must state my case plainly so that you may make the final judgment._

_If you so choose let me know by wearing the red rose in your hair. Then, at half-past eight, meet me at the gazebo so that I might endeavor to apologize again._

Her finger the paper tightly, and she looks up, around the room, anywhere but at the words in front of her.

She has never had to make a decision like this, never had to choose between two options. She has lived for so long letting everyone else decide for her – her mother, her father, the damned Union troops who claimed so many lives of so many good men, Daniel included. For the first time in her life, it is up to her to choose her path.

She thinks of Emma Jones, and the way her eyes lit up the moment her husband walked into the room. She thinks of Henry, content and loved by two parents.

She looks at the rose, remembering the first night she saw him here, the way that he handed her a similar rose. She remembers all the flower bouquets, all of the notes passed between them, kisses exchanged freely and without reservation.

_He brought his son to meet her._

She reaches for the rose, careful not to prick her finger on the thorn, and walks over to the mirror that hangs by the dormant fireplace. She threads the rose into her hair, careful not to harm the elaborate twist, surprised that it matches the red dress she is wearing tonight.

Regina will, at least, hear him out (she places her hand on her chest, as if to calm her heart which beats its own rapid tattoo).

She rejoins the others, catching Mary-Margaret’s eye and watching her beam in response. Regina can’t help but giggle, catching herself by covering her mouth with her hand, and when she looks for someone for more champagne, she spots him across the room.

He looks at her, and at the rose she wears, and the smile that slowly spreads across his face makes her heart soar. She looks away, glances at the clock, and realizes she has more than an hour before she will meet him at the gazebo.

She cannot wait, not right now, and so she catches his eye again, nods her head towards the doors to the veranda. On her way out, she grabs another glass of champagne, and then makes her way down the steps, treading carefully across the grass in her heels, lifting up her skirt with her free hand.

The gazebo is lit with paper lanterns as well, and by the time she steps up onto the wooden floor, she feels like she is in a fairy tale.

“Is this how it should be?”

She turns around. “How what should be?” she asks, watching Robin approach with his own glass of champagne.

“You told me that princes tend to meet their princesses at night, under the cover of the moon,” he admits. “You are certainly as lovely as any princess I’ve ever imagined.” He brushes his fingers against the shell of her ear, touching the rose delicately, and she can’t help but shudder.

“If you think so, I certainly won’t dissuade you,” she tells him, taking a sip of her champagne to avoid talking until she gather her thoughts (they care scattered in the wind at the touch of his hand, and she only now realizes how much she has missed him, now at they have been separated).   She finishes the glass quickly, placing it on the railing beside her.

“How was New York?” he asks politely.

“The Jones family was very kind,” Regina tells him. “And very loving, towards each other and towards perfect strangers. It was…illuminating,” she adds.

“Illuminating?” Robin asks, raising his eyebrows in response.

Regina nods, smiling. “I learned something about myself while I was there,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “I apologize for my behavior earlier today.”

“It is I who should be apologizing for my behavior – that was rash, for me to accost you there. In truth, I have spent the past few days thinking of nothing but you, and our parting, and I could not spare another minute before I made amends.” Robin looks down at his glass, finishes the champagne and puts the empty flute on the table in the center of the gazebo.

“I’m sorry for not telling you I had a son,” Robin says, leaning back against the railing. “He has been the most precious thing that I have, and I had not wanted to involve him until I was absolutely sure how I felt about you.”

“And how do you feel about me?” Regina asks, emboldened by the champagne and her own desire to control her destiny. Robin reaches for her hand, draws her near to him, so near that she can feel every exhale across her collarbone.  

“You are, without a doubt, the most wonderful person I have ever met,” he says. “Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t just run off to kiss girls under gazebos every day.”

“Is that true?” she remarks with a raised eyebrow, and Robin brings her hand towards him, presses it against his heart (she feels the strong steady beat beneath her palm and her eyelids flutter shut, she is so overwhelmed by this moment).

“I have been smitten with you since you spoke to me in the Jefferson Hotel tea room. I have been in love with you since you responded to my first note.”

When Regina opens her eyes again, Robin is looking at her, eyes tracing her face, looking for something – her own feelings, she knows.

“Do you want to know what I learned in New York?” Regina asks, surprised that her voice comes out a harsh whisper, but his other hand is pulling her close to him.

“I do.”

“I watched them – Captain Jones and his wife, and their son – and I have never been more envious of something in my entire life than that family. Never thought I’d have anything like that, and that being a governess for a family who loved each other would be enough…” Regina trails off, and Robin asks, “But?”

“But then I met you,” she tells him, eyes finding his in the dim light of the gazebo. “I know I’m old, and I’m on the shelf – “

“You are absolutely stunning, in every way.” Robin’s hand comes up to her face again, his thumb running over her lip before he pulls her close, leaning down and brushing his lips against her own. Regina sighs, leaning into his embrace, losing herself in his kiss.

Robin breaks the kiss first. “Marry me,” he asks, mouth hovering close to her. He peppers her face with kisses, along her brow and her cheeks, lightly across her lips again. “Marry me, Regina Mills, and I promise to take good care of your heart.”

Regina gasps at his words, taking a step back but his arms hold her close to him. She rests her head against his shoulder, feeling her breath catch in her chest. She grips the label of his coat, tries to hold herself steady. Her entire body sings _yes_ but there is still one part of her that worries that this is just for Roland’s sake –

“Are you asking me to marry you because you want a mother for your son, or because you want a wife?” she whispers into his neck, and Robin chuckles. His hand traces up and down the row of buttons on the back of her dress.

“I want _you_ as my wife, Regina Mills,” he tells her. “Roland having you as a mother is merely an added benefit, but I want you.”

Regina turns her head to look at Robin, and she knows that she mirrors the smile on his face.   She has never wanted anything more than she wants this, and so when she tells him, “Yes,” and he captures her lips for another kiss, she has never been happier.

“I’m not planning on staying in Storybrooke,” he tells her between kisses, “we’ll have to return to Philadelphia,” and that makes Regina even happier still.  She falls into him until there is nothing but the movement of their lips and his hand on her hip, pulling her closer and closer to him -

“Regina!”

Her mother’s harsh tone cuts through the cool summer night and Regina pulls back, hand coming to her lips immediately. Cora Mills stands near the gazebo, glaring at her daughter and at Robin, who merely adjust his jacket with a smile.

“Mrs. Mills, I’m not sure we’ve been formally introduced,” he says without much preamble, stepping down from the gazebo and walking towards her mother. “Robin Locksley – but surely you can’t be Regina’s mother – you barely look older than Regina herself. Are you quite sure that you are not her sister?”

Cora stumbles for a moment under Robin’s praise, and her mouth opens in surprise when he reaches for her hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles (Regina has to hide her grin in the palm of her hand).   “What are you doing kissing my daughter, Mr. Locksley?”

“Well, Mrs. Mills, I’m actually kissing my future wife, as your daughter has agreed to marry me. But you know, Mrs. Mills, I haven’t actually asked for your husband’s blessing – not that I doubt he would disapprove of your daughter’s choice – “

Robin seamlessly threads his arm through her mother’s and turns her in the direction of the house, talking endlessly about marriage and the wedding and Cora cannot get a word in edgewise. Regina leans against the gazebo support. Robin is right – her father will not deny a marriage that she has already consented to, not if it’s what she wants (and not to a man who has handled her mother with such skill).

She grabs her dress, lifting it so that she can walk through the damp grass on her way back to the house, heart lighter than it has ever been.

…

She sends the Jones family notice that she will not be joining them on their great adventure the next morning, and tells them of her impending marriage, and the little boy whose mother she will be.

A week before the wedding – a small, quiet affair at the town hall, with just her father and her uncle as witnesses – she receives a package from them. It is an atlas, bound in brown leather, with a note from Henry and his parents.

_Good luck on your adventure!_ he writes, and she shows the atlas to Robin and Roland that very night when they come to call on her (Roland has fallen in love with her just like his father, Robin likes to tell her).   Roland crawls into her lap, asks her to find him Storybrooke and Philadelphia, his tiny fingers curled around the collar of her dress. The atlas is spread on a large table between them, and as Regina traces the pages with her fingers, she glances up to see Robin smiling at them.

She smiles back, realizing that this new life, with these two men, will be exactly the adventure she has been waiting for her entire life.


End file.
